


Col Legno

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Flogging, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tonight, he has a better idea. His bow is a new one, cheap and too springy for his liking, better at  the bruising spiccato and ricochet bowing across his strings than any meaningful bow-work. He doesn’t mind the prospect of breaking it tonight, especially across John's shoulders. John's eyes track the tip of the bow again as Sherlock draws it down, slides the head down the bridge of his nose and over the bow of his lips, watching them part on a soft gasp as the cool wood passes over them.</i>
</p>
<p> <i>"Strip," he commands, dropping the bow to strike John softly on the shoulders. He barely makes contact, but it’s enough.</i></p>
<p>Kinky PWP. John needs to hurt. Sherlock will always give John what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Col Legno

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of lovely people helped me work out the logistics of this fic, and I'm very grateful to you all. Thank you.
> 
> Please note that while this fic might not be entirely safe or sane, it is completely consensual.
> 
> _Col Legno_ \- (literally: with the wood) means that the players have to turn the bow over and hit the string with the wood. Players with expensive bows often do not like doing this and bring a cheaper bow to play those bits.

He always comes home at three o'clock, key sliding into the lock just as the last chime from the church bells fades, turning it slowly in a way that he clearly thinks is covert. It isn't. He's slow on the stairs too, rolling his weight, hesitating on the penultimate step as though maybe tonight he'll go straight to his room with nothing more than a quick goodnight. He won't. He never does.

The final step is more confident. John does not waver once he has made-up his mind. It is Sherlock's cue to set his violin back into its case, a last lazy circle with the bow, easing into a firm ictus just as John pushes the door open, his eyes already focussed on Sherlock's armchair.

For a moment, there is perfect silence, the bow cutting through the air on the down-stroke in a sharp whisper. John's gaze inexorably falls to the ivory tip, watching it stop at the bottom of the swing, perfectly controlled. His eyes are wide and dark with pupil, there is no mistaking exactly what he wants. What he needs.

"Come here." Sherlock pulls the bow up on an aborted preparation swing, just to watch the way John's eyes follow even as he crosses the room and stands before the armchair.

John does not go to his knees easily for anyone else. He submits with a fierce sort of pride, always on his terms, chin just a little too high, his back a little too straight. He'll go down for Sherlock though, easing down onto his knees in front of the fire and transferring his gaze up to Sherlock's eyes.

"Tell me." In truth, Sherlock has no interest in John's conquests, but he loves to watch John squirm, his gentlemanly persona at war with his need for Sherlock's healing touch, for the healing pain that quiets his mind.

"Emma." John has the debrief down to a fine art, covering everything Sherlock wants without the niceties of true conversation. "I took her to dinner. She drank red wine. I didn't. We went back to hers. I went down on her. She came twice. I fucked her. I came."

"And?" There's a dark flush starting in John's cheeks, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows before he speaks.

"And I need you to hurt me," he says at last, eyes flickering back to the ivory tip for a second before settling back on Sherlock's.

There's a procedure from here on out, a standard format with some subtle variations designed to give both of them what they need with minimum outlay for maximum efficiency. He will usually order John to rise, and head up the stairs to wait in his own room. Sometimes he will request that John fetch the crop and bring it to him here, on the nights when they are sure that Mrs Hudson is sound asleep and he feels like testing John's control.

Tonight, he has a better idea. His bow is a new one, cheap and too springy for his liking, better at the bruising spiccato and ricochet bowing across his strings than any meaningful bow-work. He doesn’t mind the prospect of breaking it tonight, especially across John's shoulders. John's eyes track the tip of the bow again as Sherlock draws it down, slides the head down the bridge of his nose and over the bow of his lips, watching them part on a soft gasp as the cool wood passes over them.

"Strip," he commands, dropping the bow to strike John softly on the shoulders. He barely makes contact, but it’s enough. John's eyes close on a slight shudder and it is a moment before he is able to get to his feet and start pulling his clothes off.

When he is naked, he kneels before Sherlock again, his knees spread and his cock hard and slightly slick with pre-come. He hasn't showered. Still smells faintly of her, her perfume, her musky smell, slightly sweeter than John's own. There are thin scratch marks in his shoulders where her nails have dug in, others scattered in the small of John's back, his hips, his thighs. They are so slight that John would hardly have felt them, the sort of casual damage that he picks up every day. Not enough for him. Nowhere near sufficient for his needs.

Sherlock runs the head of the bow across one of the cuts, pressing in slightly, watching for a flicker of pain. There is none, so he takes advantage of the fading coolness of the bow to trace a line between John's collar bones, snaking down over his stomach to the inside of his right thigh. He gives no warning before he strikes, targeting the sensitive, soft skin high on the inside of John's thigh, the satisfying sound of solid wood connecting with vulnerable flesh.

It barely raises a line, but John breathes out on a sigh all the same, relaxing into his pose by millimetres. Good.

He is much quieter than John when he stalks across the floor, circling behind John and working out the best angle from which to strike. The bow will last for about twenty strikes, and he wants John to break before it does. It's all in the planning now. John's head is slightly bowed; his eyes will be closed now that Sherlock is no longer in front of him. A frission of power slinks up Sherlock's spine, warming him by degrees, the constant hum of activity in his mind quietening a little as he focuses on giving John what he needs.

His first three strikes are fast and hard, diagonal blows just below his shoulder-blades, crossing almost dead-centre, a little to the right. John's breath hisses out through his teeth, posture collapsing for a few second as he gauges the sting, forces his mind to deal with the pain. The bow has left pink marks in its wake, fading out to white at the edges.

When John settles, Sherlock adjusts his grip, meting out six firm strokes in quick succession, pinking John's back beautifully, each stroke carefully aimed to spread the sting of them down John's back, maximum pain for minimum outlay. It is the seventh stroke that will make or break John, laid across his tender skin to catch every one of the nine marks that preceded it. When it hits, John moans out loud, his chin dropping down to his chest as he gives himself over to it, muscles relaxing in surrender.

This is Sherlock's favourite part, when John relaxes his guard and allows himself to be truly cared for, to take what he needs from Sherlock without guilt or concern. This is John truly naked, for his eyes alone. Sherlock runs the head of the bow slowly up his back, firm pressure stoking the fire that the welts on John's skin must be raising. When he reaches the small of his back, John shudders, hips rolling involuntarily, his posture slipping a little more.

The next two swings are artless, slightly pulled, more for show than actual damage. John arches into them anyway, as though he can wring more sensation from the blows that have already passed, no longer thinking clearly. He is exactly where Sherlock wants him to be. When he dreams of John, alone in his bed in the dark, this is the image that he sees, the picture that pulls him over the edge.

John is breaking, but not yet fully broken. Sherlock aims deliberately for the places on John's back where he can still see the marks from Emma's nails and lands two solid blows, the skin reddening now, John's breaths coming in great shuddering gasps as he fights against the pain of it. He is close. It is nearly enough.

There are six more strokes left in the bow. Six blows with which to take John fully apart and leave him shivering and complete on their living room floor. Sherlock's cock is more than a little interested, but he forces himself to steadily breathe through his nose, to read John even more closely than he reads his crime scenes.

He takes his time, alternating a quick stroke with a smooth, steady drawing of the bow over John's skin. He is a most exquisite instrument after all, and playing him is an art. The skin on John’s lower back is close to tearing, so Sherlock avoids it, saving his seventeenth and eighteenth strokes for John’s shoulders, John’s body bowing forwards, chest toward his knees as he offers himself up to Sherlock.

The nineteenth blow will break him. It is a mathematical certainty and a simple matter of choosing the correct angle and pressure with which to make contact. Sherlock swings and holds his breath as the bow connects, a ripple of pain spreading through John even as the wood quavers to a stop, a single stroke away from breaking.

It is enough. He tosses the bow behind him onto John’s chair and slides a hand into John’s hair to raise his head, crouching at John’s side to take in his flushed face, the dampness around his eyes.

‘I will always give you what you need,’ he thinks as he leans in, brushes his lips across John’s softly, tasting the salt in their kiss. John’s cock is an angry red and leaking freely, slick under the pad of Sherlock’s thumb as he strokes across the slit, wraps his long fingers around it and brings John off in a few rough strokes.

John pitches forward as he comes, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, tears falling freely as he shudders and whimpers. Watching John Watson come apart is truly the most beautiful sight that Sherlock has ever witnessed. He gives himself over to it completely, trusting Sherlock to hold him up, to gather the scattered pieces of him and put them back together again, to rebuild him new and gleaming. It is a task that Sherlock shoulders gladly, petting John’s thighs, his sides, his shoulders, easing him slowly onto shaky feet and guiding him into the bedroom where he has already laid out the supplies.

He always comes home at three o’clock. He always comes home to Sherlock.

End

**Author's Note:**

> [Please don't hit people with violin bows. It's not safe in any context.]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Col Legno](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696366) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




End file.
